


leave them to fade like forgotten games

by whiplash



Series: we sleepy children [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Tag, First Kiss, M/M, OT3, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 04:15:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1290970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiplash/pseuds/whiplash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Porthos missing at the Court of Miracles, Athos attempts to take care of Aramis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	leave them to fade like forgotten games

A touch on his shoulder, a glance towards the door.

The command might be unspoken, but Aramis still follows close on Athos' heels. Behind him, he leaves wine in his cup and bread on his plate. If Porthos had been there, the man would have drained the cup and pocketed the bread. Never one to waste a meal, their Porthos. Aramis couldn't care less himself, at least not tonight.

Outside the night air reeks of piss. From a narrow street to their left, leading straight into darkness, drifts a mix of grunts and moans which would leave a gentleman blushing. Any other night, Aramis would have given voice to this observation. He would have made a show of peeking at Athos' face as he spoke and Porthos' boisterous laughter would have echoed between the buildings in response.

Instead, silence fills the space between the two men.

Athos keeps a punishing pace as they stride down the narrow streets, one hand on his sword belt and the other swinging at his side like a pendulum. The square shoulders appear set and under the brim of his hat, Aramis can catch just enough of his friend's face to make out the grim mask of determination.

"Where to, then?" he finally asks.

D'Artagnan had returned to his bed at Madame Bonacieux's some hours earlier. All around them Paris either sleeps or makes merry, all honest folk in their beds while the lovers, the fools and the drunkards carouse.

"Home," comes the answer.

xxx

There should be an arm wrapped loosely around Aramis' chest or a knee digging into his back. There should be the sound of snoring, as steady and comforting as the crackling of the fire or the hoof beats of a good horse. There should be Porthos, with Aramis on one side and Athos on the other. Instead there's Aramis, curled on his side with his eyes locked on the sliver of sky he can glimpse through the curtains. Next to him, facing the wall with his back too rigid and his breaths too even, lays Athos. And between them, at once nothing and too much.

In the night, a cat screeches. Something scuttles across the floor. A babe cries, followed by a mother's voice rising in song. Aramis must have known that lullaby once. He remembers each word a breath before it's sung. He sucks in a lungful of air, surprised to feel his body shudder at the movement.

The bed creaks as Athos sits up, his bare toes digging insistently into Aramis' thigh.

"Bring me that bottle," he says, holding out his hand like a man expecting to be obeyed. And Aramis, of course, obeys. The floor is cold, but, as they're in Athos' home, it's never far to a bottle and his fingers soon close around a glass neck. He carries back his prize, pleased to pull his cold feet back under the blanket, and tries to hand it over to Athos. Their fingers brush against each other, but rather than taking the bottle, Athos pushes it back towards Aramis.

"Drink," he says. "It helps."

It's not a command, though not for lack of conviction.

"Speaking from experience?" Aramis replies, the cutting words no sooner out of his mouth than he regrets them. Athos doesn't flinch though, just meets his eyes with steady blankness until Aramis looks away.

"You did not eat the meal I bought, nor sleep in the bed I offered," Athos continues, each word heavy and precise. "Let it not be said that Aramis also refused the wine that Athos gave him."

It's not a joke. Yet Aramis, too much a coward to act differently, laughs. And he grabs the bottle and he tilts his head back and then the muddle of his thoughts and the fire in his belly can all be blamed on the strong wine.

Then, perhaps because of that same strong wine, he reaches out, digging his fingers into the fabric of Athos' shirt and pulling him close. What happens next is too chaste to be called a kiss; nothing more than Aramis' wine-wet lips pressing, for a heartbeat or two, against the left side of Athos' mouth. And yet... yet, that little moment sears itself into Aramis' mind with such white-glowing heat that he knows, knows from the very moment he pulls away, that it will stay with him and pursue him always, offering him no quarter.

"Let it not be said," he agrees, "that Athos is not the perfect host."

Then he tugs on Athos' shirt again, until the man is stretched out next to him. As they lay there -- side by side, shoulders barely brushing and fingers tangled in a loose grip -- the ache for what's missing grows inside Aramis, taking his breath away.

"We'll bring him home," Athos promises, his voice breaking the silence again. He sounds, just for that short moment, more like a man trying to assure himself than a leader offering comfort to one of his men. In response, Aramis tightens his grip on Athos' fingers.

"Yes," he agrees, his voice as strong and confident as it's ever been. "We will."

Then, together, they wait for dawn.


End file.
